


Think of the Tender Things

by gayspaceelf



Category: Mass Effect Trilogy, Mass Effect: Andromeda
Genre: Blow Jobs, Canon Compliant, Drunk Sex, Frottage, M/M, Sad Ending, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-12-11 22:43:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11724114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gayspaceelf/pseuds/gayspaceelf
Summary: The first time they meet, Scott Ryder and John Shepard are at a diplomatic party that neither of them particularly want to be at.It's not the last time they meet.(C/N: contains drunk but 100% consenting sex)





	Think of the Tender Things

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ellebeedarling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellebeedarling/gifts).



Scott is first aware of the Commander’s presence because of the hush of whispers that follows around the party. He doesn’t pay attention at first- there’s usually somebody more interesting or important than him at these events. He’s here as a guest of his father’s, not on his own merit, and he’s not expecting to be received in any other context than that. 

So when the salarian and turian he’s talking to look away, muttering something about the Hero of Elysium, Scott doesn’t take it too personally. It’s not the first time he’s been looked over at a social in favour of somebody more interesting, who’s done more, or at least done something. He simply sighs, and takes a long sip of his drink, avoiding looking in the direction everybody else seems to be.

The wine is some asari thing, too clogged with spices, but with every one of them too subtle or not subtle enough. It’s not the worst wine Scott’s ever had- that prize goes to the half a credit bottle he bought back on Arcturus Station- but he struggles to hold back a grimace as he downs as much of the glass as he can before attention falls back to him. 

He makes it a good third of the way through what’s left in his glass before both the turian and salarian turn their heads back to look at him.

“Sorry”, the turian says, twitching her mandibles in a way that makes Scott sure she isn’t sorry at all. “I’ve just been… intrigued by the commander for a while.”

She drags out the word ‘intrigued’ far too long, as if it’s supposed to convey something specific. Scott has no idea what she means, because as far as he’s managed to gather, she’s here for networking and politics. The salarian turns back to the two of them again, corners of his mouth pulling into a coy smile.

“Indeed”, the salarian says, and Scott is still nowhere closer to understanding what either of them is trying to imply. He toys with his glass, flicking his fingernails against the stem as the two continue to purr at each other, each word loaded with too much for him to untangle. 

“Excuse me”, he says, and goes looking for somewhere where he can get some air. The party is over a large number of areas, but the clinking of glasses and the constant low level noise, and the heat of too many bodies pushed into a space are becoming too much. Squeezing his way through the crowds, Scott manages to find a balcony. The moment the cold air hits his face he gives a long sign of relief, his eyelashes fluttering against his cheek. It’s not until he hears a cough that he realises he’s not the only one there.

The man’s body is stiff in his dress blues, like the cloth is rigid enough to keep him standing upright all on its own. His hair is shaven short- an old military grade buzzcut, Scott notes- and he’s looking at Scott with what could be confusion or disdain. 

“Sorry”, Scott says, mustering up every piece of charm he has and giving what he thinks is his best cheeky grin. “Didn’t mean to disturb you. Just wanted to get some air.”  
The Alliance soldier visibly relaxes, back curling slightly as one corner of his mouth twitches into something that isn’t a smile, but could totally be the start of one. “I understand. It’s pretty ”

“Mind if I join you?” Scott doesn’t wait for a response before he slides to rest against the balcony railing next to the other man, but there’s a yes, softer than he expected.

They talk, and Scott feels like he’d forgotten how nice it was to just talk. It’s the first conversation he’s had this evening where he doesn’t feel like he’s navigating a minefield blind, the first conversation where words don’t hide political meanings or hidden agendas, but are just words.

They’ve been there for what must at least be an hour, when Scott realises something.

“Sorry. I don’t think I got your name. I’m Scott. Scott Ryder.”

“Shepard”, the man says, then pauses, remembering that they’re not in a military situation right that moment. “Wait, no. John.”

Scott smiles, and he’s sure the gesture looks almost as sheepish as the smile he gets in return. John leans back against the balcony railing and takes another sip at his wine, before the two just stay there, in silence. 

It’s nice, just being there. Scott can still hear the noise of the party, music and talking and the clinking of glasses all twisted up into a mess of sound, but it’s muted up here, with walls between him and it. He can hear himself think, feel himself breath. He takes another sip of his wine, and tries not to think too hard about the fact he can hear John breath too.

“I have to go”, John says eventually. “I’m supposed to do the rounds here, make contacts, networking, all those buzzwords.”

“Oh.”

“I wish I could just stay here and talk.” The words sound genuine, and Scott feels himself forgive the man almost instantly. “But I have to go.”

He turns back to Scott one last time, and gives a smile. “I’ll see you around though.”

Scott doesn't believe him, but he nods anyway. “Yeah, I’ll see you around.”

It’s only later, when his father makes barbed comments about the Alliance’s diplomacy efforts, the quality of the wine, Scott’s absence for most of the party, and having not met the Commander he was hoping to that Scott twigs who John in.

_Yeah, he definitely doesn’t believe him now._

 

-

Scott is wrong, because he sees John again, a few weeks later. He’s less surprised than he expects himself to be at finding the Hero of Elysium, the Alliance’s poster boy and paragon and pinup, slumming it in some shitty bar on the Citadel’s lower wards. 

He has a totally different body language to the last time Scott saw him. Where his dress uniform was all stiffness and formality, John in a tank top and fatigue pants is relaxed, his body movements fluid. He’s perched up by the bar with three other soldiers, all in Alliance fatigues, one man with a baseball cap, another with hair that Scott is certain contains more hair products than Alliance protocol allows for, and a woman with her hair tied back.

Sara catches him staring, and elbows him in the ribs. It doesn’t hurt, but Scott scowls anyway, shoving her back, his movements a little sluggish and loose from the shots of Akantha he’s done earlier. 

“Go talk to them”, she says. She makes it sound simple, like it’s something Scott can do easily. And he’s drunk enough to believe her.

His “hey” is painfully quiet, and he’s pretty sure it’s inaudible over the music, but Shepard looks at him anyway, and gives a brief smile. 

“Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“You neither”, Scott manages, conscious of how the three people with John are looking at him. He can almost feel the cogs turning as they try to figure out who he is and how John knows him. “Good to see you.”

John nods, and for a second Scott is convinced the conversation has died right there. And then John gets up from his barstool and gestures for Scott to come with him.

“Want a drink? For some reason they decided I’m worthy of the VIP lounge, so if you want to see what that’s like, now’s your change.”

“I”, Scott begins, conscious of John’s companions’ gaze burning into him. “Yeah. That sounds good.”

The seats in the VIP lounge are soft and plushy, butt he talking is awkward for a while. Scott sticks to safe topics, sipping at his Thessian Temple as the topic of conversation moves from recent movie releases to gun mods to . It takes until the third drink, and John’s hand brushing his thigh under the table, before he feels relaxed enough to move on from small talk. 

“So”, Scott says. “First human Spectre, huh? What’s that like?”

John snorts. “A goddamn mess. All the resources I want, but too much diplomacy and red tape to do anything. There’s no point in unlimited resources if you have to ask the Council’s permission to take a shit.”

Scott isn’t sure how to respond, but he still asks the one thing he can think of. 

“Come dance with me and forget about the Council?” There’s a few moments before he gets a response, but John nods, and takes his hand.

John’s dancing is terrible, and Scott tries not to think about how he’s not much better, but here on the dance floor, the music playing and the lights shifting constantly, he finds himself drawn to John’s face. The feeling is mutual, or it seems to be, because John is looking at him in the exact same way, eyes not breaking away from his face, glancing flickering between his lips and his face. 

John’s shoulders are broad and his arms strong, and Scott is conscious of this even as he refuses to move his gaze from John’s face. Their dancing gets closer, and then closer again, and by the time their lips finally meet, it surprises neither of them. John’s lips are softer than Scott expected, but he can feel the calluses as John cups his face with his hands, pulling him closer ever so slowly. Their lips are open now, John’s tongue just teasing the boundary between their two mouths, and Scott groans into the kiss.

There’s a click and both their eyes snap open at the sound. The man Scott saw with John earlier is looking at them with a shit-eating grin on his face, cap slightly lopsided, omni-tool open to recording mode. John half-scowls, half-grins, flips him off, then leans in close to Scott again. It doesn’t feel real when John kisses him again. And as he’s pushed back first against the stall, John’s hands grasping at his hips and his shoulders and his cock, it still doesn’t feel real. 

John’s mouth is on his neck now, grasping at the skin between his teeth, and Scott is going to have to explain away the marks in the morning, but for now he doesn’t care. He moans, breathy and desperate, fully aware that anybody could walk in on them and not caring in the slightest. He reaches his hands around John’s shoulders, digging his nails into his back as best he can, pulling John closer towards him. His breath is hot against Scott’s neck, his breaths deep and long and strangely silent.

There’s a trail of deep red marks on Scott’s neck before John pulls back and looks him in the eyes. One hand is tangled in Scott’s hair, the other sliding from Scott’s hip to his cock, squeezing him through his fatigues. 

“Is this okay?”

Scott nods and swallows, suddenly very conscious of how quick and heavy his breathing is. He speaks-his voice is quieter than he would like it to be- and slowly moves his hands from John’s shoulders to cup his ass.

_“Yeah. This is more than okay.”_

-

They both fall into a pattern before they’ve realised it happens. When their shore leaves match up, they find a bar on the Citadel where questions won’t be asked, meet for drinks, and end up back at John’s apartment. The Citadel hasn’t recovered from Sovereign’s attack, but it’s starting to. Or at least the bars are open again and drinks are being poured. This time they meet at some bar that Scott doesn’t remember the name of. It’s some kind of pun about the afterlife, the name for the world beyond from some culture of species that Scott doesn’t know. It doesn’t matter- the bar is a pretence at this point. Scott doubts either he or John will ever come back, and he has other things on his mind. This is John’s last night of shore leave, and Scott is conscious that they’re running out of time.

They only stay for two drinks each before they leave for the apartment. By the time the door closes, Scott wants nothing more than to pin John up against the door and kiss him. So he does. Their mouths are open, hands touching and stroking and grasping as much of each other as they can. His knee is up against John’s cock, rubbing it through the fabric of his fatigues as he cups John’s head with one hand, grasping his bottom lip between his teeth and slowly, slowly letting go.

John lets out the type of moan that Scott never expected to hear from him, and Scott moves his free hand down to cup at his dick. John squirms at the touch, leaning into it as best he can.

“Please.”

Scott near tears John’s pants off, zip coming undone in the same motion that makes the fabric pool around John’s ankles. The floor tiles are noticeably cold against his knees, even through the fabric, but he’s still warm from the alcohol and it barely registers.

“So”, Scott says, teasing the words around his mouth. “Still fighting the Geth?”

“Yeah”, is all John says, sliding the end of his tongue along the edge of his lips. Even from this angle, Scott can see the red marks where he’s grasped John’s bottom lip between his teeth, and it makes a shudder run down his spine. 

Scott grasps the base of John’s cock with one hand, leans forward and gently licks the head, shapes his tongue around the curve of it. John lets out a heavy breath that’s almost a moan, and Scott pulls back to lean on his heels, looks up at him until John meets his gaze.

“I’m gonna miss you. I’m gonna miss you so much”, is all John can manage, before something chokes the rest of his words off. 

John isn’t good at talking about his feelings- he’s not even good at admitting he has feelings. And that’s something Scott has learnt to deal with, learning that sometimes he has to coax the words out of John like blood from a stone. He’s not angry for it- in a weird way it’s more familiar. Scott grew up a military brat, he’s used to people 

“I’m gonna miss you too”, he says, and John buries a hand in his hair and pulls him forward. His mouth is back on John’s cock now, tongue running up and down the bottom of the shaft. He licks a few more times before he decides it’s time to take the whole length of John’s dick into his mouth.

Scott’s blowjobs are always wet and sloppy. He’s not used to taking dick this deep, and part of him feels like he never will, but he likes it. He likes feeling the head reach the back of his throat, likes feeling tears start to well up in his eyes, likes seeing how wet John’s cock is with his spit when it’s no longer in his mouth. 

He’s about to take it down to the base again when John stops him.

“Fuck”, he says, the words breathless. “Bed. Bed now.”

Both of them have had too much to drink to be able to untangle what’s happening. Instead, they’re a mess of limbs, holding each other close in some places and pushing apart in others, fingers interlocking as their cocks touch, wet with spit and lube. When they cum- or at least when Scott thinks they both cum- he’s more aware of John’s body under him, of John’s strong arms holding him close, of the kisses that John trails down his neck and torso, than he is of 

The last thing he remembers of that night is saying something that he isn’t sure of, but could be “I love you”. John is silent for a while, and then pulls him close for one last kiss.

When Scott wakes in the morning, he’s alone in the apartment. There’s a note on the bedside table, and as Scott drags himself out of bed, he notices there’s something else next to it. One of John’s dog tags. 

Scott freezes. 

Suddenly the empty apartment feels a hell of a lot bigger.

-

Scott knows he shouldn’t be surprised to not have been told. He’s not officially recognised as John’s anything, not officially anything more than a random Alliance soldier with a record only slightly more spotless than his father’s.

But when he hears the news, sees the vid report playing loud and large on the screen on the station, hears the chirpy news anchor say the words like she’s talking about something insignificant, it doesn’t help to know.

It takes all he has not to fall to his knees right there, and sob until he has no more tears to give.

-

He sees the dog tag one last time when he’s choosing what to take to Andromeda. And he freezes on sight, holds himself still mid-gesture. It takes him a while to process what it is, what it could mean, all the scenarios that could possibly play out. He has room, he knows. He can’t take much with him, but it’s small and light, and nobody would fault him for bringing it. 

He leaves it behind.


End file.
